Out of Sync
by KaasKnot
Summary: Sylar, with the ink-blot, at the Carnival.


It squirmed. Before the prick of the needle had faded away Sylar felt the splotch of ink gel together and... wriggle into life. Then it began to move, and it felt uncomfortably like a slug oozing under his bare skin. It left a trail behind it, too--only he couldn't wipe this slime away.

The muscles in his chest and abdomen twitched in protest, _like a fly-bitten horse_, he thought, as the ink-blob hovered briefly over his nipple. He wished, for the tiniest of moments, that he had left this power alone, that he had left it to Lydia and just walked away. There was none of the pleasure he usually felt when testing a new ability. Even shape-changing, though painful, left him with a high. This, however... this left him feeling dirty. Stained.

Invaded.

He felt a sudden new sympathy with his victims. Foreign fingers, poking about where they shouldn't be, prying out secrets that weren't theirs to know. He wished Samuel wasn't there, wished he could run away and take a shower, to scour at his flesh until not a trace of the ink remained. Open his own skull and pull out the power and cast it away...

The splotch coiled around his shoulder, looking for what Sylar supposed was a welcoming patch of skin, but he wasn't feeling very welcoming. Impulsively, it... _stretched_, elongating itself into a thin line as it traced the ridge of his shoulder blade before contracting back again and puddling in the depression of his upper back. He stifled his jerk at the unpleasant sensation. Goosebumps fluttered up his spine, and the ink roiled there for a few seconds as though contemplating its next course.

When it wended its way under his armpit he couldn't hold back any longer. "What's it doing?" he burst out, pathetically pleased his voice was steady, with only a tinge of mild curiosity. How did she _control_ this?! The solution completely escaped him, and he scrabbled for any insight in his scattered, pieced-together thoughts. This had never happened before, he _always_ knew how to control his new powers. Wasn't that part of his goddamned _gift_?

"Stop thinking!" Samuel hissed, slowly circling Sylar's form. "Stop trying to force it and let it happen." He sounded annoyed, tense. Sylar commiserated. The answer was so obvious; he would have seen it himself, if not for Matt and Nathan's combined memories clanging around in his brain. Being isolated from his body for eight months, and being forced into intimate contact with two minds, had done his own mind no good.

Obeying Samuel's command, he forced himself to relax and extended the proverbial olive branch toward the inky invader coiling its way around his deltoid. It wasn't exactly a welcome, but he felt the difference immediately--the cold, alien sensation vanished, replaced by warmth and pleasure, and the comforting thrill of a new power used to its utmost. Goosebumps of a different sort swept across his arm, trailing across his chest and back, and he almost sighed in relief.

Then the power surged out of the ink, seizing his mind. Heedless of his indignation it began riffling through the the thoughts and memories at the forefront of his mind, and to his chagrin not all of them were his. As the ink trickled down his right bicep, the power drew out the moments Sylar secretly envied. Memories where he had felt... connected. Family dinners. Laughing at an inside joke with his secretary. Brotherly camaraderie with his fellow officers. Conversations with his mothe--Angela, over sushi. Holding his smiling, chortling son. Claire...

The mnemonic play-back froze, and delved deeper before settling on the image of Claire as she gazed out the window of some roach-invested hotel room in Mexico. Sylar felt Nathan's emotions through the memory, his worry and the protective surge he felt toward her, the... love. He watched, not quite helpless, but not in control, either, as the power played the scene forward until Claire turned away from the view outside to smile back at him. There it froze again, on that smile. Sylar's heart leapt, separate and awkwardly disjointed from Nathan's own remembered response.

_Such love in that smile_, he thought briefly. No one had ever looked at _Sylar_ like that. A surge of bitter resentment and longing rose up in his chest, tinged with desire.

Then, it was over. The power, seemingly satisfied, released his mind and returned him to reality, where he saw that Samuel had yet to complete the last step he had taken, and the ink was still making its way down his arm. Before he could clear his head and process what he had seen, a burning sensation drew his attention back to the ink. He watched as the black trail coalesced on the flesh of his forearm, tingling and stinging as it formed Claire's face in perfect, punishing detail, smiling just as it had in the memory. He stood dumbstruck, eyes locked on the tattoo as the pleasant warmth of the power faded from his skin.

"Oh--isn't that interesting," Samuel murmured over Sylar's shoulder, his breath tickling against Sylar's skin. He sounded equal parts, surprised, amused, and knowing.

Catching himself, Sylar tore his gaze away from the tattoo _his wants and desires_ and thrust his arm away. "I guess you were wrong," he stated, aiming for smug and triumphant, but falling far short. "I don't belong here." His mind seethed in shock and confusion _and admit it, fear_ as he rushed from Samuel's presence, dragging his shirt over his head.

He didn't exactly know why he had come to the Carnival in the first place, but he knew why he was leaving--Claire. She would be able to help him.

With that, he surged into the inky skies.


End file.
